Promises, Promises
by Joodiff
Summary: The CCU is busy with a difficult investigation, and not only are Boyd and Grace struggling to find any time together, one of them's forgotten what day it is... Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

 _Happy Valentine's Day 2017!_

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 **Promises, Promises**

by Joodiff

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The storm has been building all afternoon. Or maybe all day. Perhaps even all week. The Turnpike Road Armed Robbery investigation is a difficult one, a decade-old tangle of sketchy police reports, inconclusive and unconnected bits and pieces of evidence, inadequate or incomplete witness statements, and innumerable loose ends. It's been a struggle to get as far as they have as fast as they have, a struggle that's left all of them weary, irritable, and not in any mood to be unduly tolerant of each other's faults and foibles. The morning's bad-tempered bickering has steadily become more aggressive and less forgiving, and Grace isn't at all surprised when Spencer's surly, unhelpful response to Boyd's latest barrage of quickfire instructions sparks the inevitable explosion of temper that has been looming ever-nearer as the hours have ground by. She's not surprised, and for once she's also not inclined to intervene. There are times when she honestly believes – rightly or wrongly – that Spencer's unfortunate proclivity for grumbling negativity deserves to be castigated, and that Peter Boyd is very definitely the man to do it.

The angry tirade is loud and forceful, and it's all-encompassing. Whether they deserve it or not, the whole team, Grace included, suffers under the full force of their commanding officer's considerable displeasure. He roars at them all, reminds them in no uncertain terms what the sole purpose of the specialised police unit they work for is, the moral and professional standards they're supposed to adhere to, and exactly what he expects from each and every one them, however tedious and challenging they might find a particular investigation to be. They take the thorough dressing-down in silence, all of them, each staying quiet for their own reasons. It helps curtail Boyd's wrath, and he finishes sooner than expected with a direct attack on Spencer, snarling, "I don't care if you have to knock on every single damn door in Southwark, and I don't care if it takes you all bloody _night_." A single heartbeat's pause. "Do you understand, _Detective Inspector_? I don't fucking _care_."

"Sir." A curt, sullen acknowledgement. Just, and only just, on the acceptable side of insubordination.

"Good." Boyd's intimidating dark gaze rakes over them all, daring anyone to even think about complaining. When no-one so much as twitches, let alone risks breathing a single word, his attention returns again to Spencer. "Well? Get to it, man!"

It isn't just Spencer who's spurred into grudging movement. They all rise, abandoning the squad room's central block of desks with a variety of muttered explanations. Eve escapes first, heading in the general direction of the lab, presumably intending to make the impossible possible before Boyd has a chance to question the lamentable lack of conclusive forensic evidence so far available to them. Stella pauses to answer a suddenly shrilling phone as Grace takes a moment to stare thoughtfully at the montage of photographs currently attached to the big glass board. Mick Sadler's thin, sallow visage still draws the majority of her attention. Like Boyd, she is absolutely certain that however strong his too-perfect alibi seems to be, it was Sadler who shot and killed the two luckless bystanders who witnessed every detail of the long-infamous Turnpike Road robbery. Like Boyd, she can't produce the required level of solid proof needed to convince a jury – _yet_ – but she knows in her heart that Sadler's their man. She just _knows_.

"Sir?" Stella's voice inquires, its French-accented cadence edged with quiet apprehension. "Harper wants to know if you're ready to do the press conference…?"

Boyd looks as if he hasn't slept at all for at least the last twenty-four hours, Grace reflects, as he turns to glower at his junior officer, and maybe he hasn't, given that she's almost certain he hasn't been home once since the slippery, quick-talking Sadler became their chief – and only serious – suspect. She's as sure that Boyd's been cat-napping on his office couch for a meagre couple of hours here and there as she is that Sadler was the masked gunman all those years ago. Though both hypotheses still require that final elusive piece of incontrovertible proof that will put the truth far, far beyond any reasonable doubt. Looking at the semi-dishevelled state of the former, she hopes it won't be long before the latter is in police custody. And not just for Boyd's sake.

"Fuck," he growls, and she knows instantly that he'd completely forgotten about the assembling mob of journalists, despite their protracted discussions about whether or not blatantly involving the press would force Sadler's hand. He glares, both at Stella, and at the middle distance in general. "Fuck's _sake_ …" A discernible intake of breath. A quick, controlled exhalation. "Yeah, yeah. Tell her I'll be up there in twenty minutes."

How he continues to find the energy to sustain the formidable pace he sets for himself, Grace really doesn't know. The mounting years continue to grind by, and yet, no matter how hard life seems to get for him, he still manages to tackle the toughest, most taxing of investigations by simply charging headlong into and through them. A fiery, iron-willed, stubborn force of nature who somehow never fails to get results.

She adores him.

It's an unfortunate, sometimes rather tiresome weakness, of course, but –

"Grace," he barks, already back in motion and heading towards his office, "a word…"

Exchanging a quick glance with Stella, one that conveys a degree of sympathetic fellow-feeling, Grace dutifully follows him into his lair, mildly perplexed by his immediate closure of the privacy blinds. Something of her bemusement must show in her expression because he says over his shoulder, "Need to change my shirt."

"Need to look your best for the cameras?" she suggests, a gentle dig at his vanity. She allows a small smirk. "I shouldn't worry about closing the blinds – Stella wouldn't dare risk getting caught taking a sneaky peek."

"Hilarious," he says, tone dry. "Shut the bloody door, will you? Were you born in a barn?"

"No-one says that anymore, Boyd," she informs him, but does as he asks.

He grunts, but doesn't pursue the issue. Instead, as he shrugs out of his jacket, he says, "Assuming Spence does his bloody job properly, I'm intending to get a warrant tonight."

"Tonight?" Grace echoes, startled by the news. It makes sense, she supposes, but she didn't expect Boyd to be planning to make his move quite so soon.

"I want to catch Sadler wrong-footed. He's been laughing at the police for far too long, Grace. He's not getting away with it any longer."

She can see the determined set of his jaw, the brooding look in his eyes. Knows his mind is made up. No point in trying to get him to change it when there's no real reason to do so. She shrugs. "All right."

He drapes his jacket over the back of his desk chair, starts to unbutton his crumpled pale grey shirt. It looks as if it's been slept in. Cat-napped in. "I'm sorry."

Grace frowns, not following his line of thought. "Sorry? What for?"

Boyd pauses, frozen in motion for a second or two. His expression changes from solemn to cautious and faintly quizzical. "Is that supposed to be some sort of test?"

She holds up her hands, infuriation and surrender in one single gesture. "I know the weird convolutions of your thought processes are a total mystery to the rest of us mere mortals, but this time you really have completely lost me, Boyd."

Shirt hanging half open, he takes a step towards her. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she agrees. "How many times do I have to tell you – I'm a psychologist, not a clairvoyant."

Another step towards her, one that brings him further into her personal space than is usual during working hours. He looks down at her, and for a moment all the worries and stresses of the last few days are erased from his expression. He looks, in fact, amused. Amused, and inexplicably just a touch smug. One hand falls on her shoulder, and he turns her to face the glazed partition that divides his office from the rest of the squad room. Not sure what she's supposed to be looking at, Grace glances back over her shoulder at him. "What?"

His other hand takes up residence on her other shoulder. There's so little distance between them that she can feel the familiar heat of his body against her back. His voice is very quiet. "Look at the date, Grace."

The clock mounted on the concrete pillar is always set exactly right, she knows. He's meticulous about such things. Below the time, the date is very clear. Incredibly easy to read.

Oh.

"February the fourteenth…" she mutters.

"Quite."

Valentine's Day.

"You'd forgotten, hadn't you?" he says, his tone so mild that Grace finds it momentarily impossible to believe that he is the same man who was tearing into the whole team with such wild ferocity only minutes before.

"I had," she admits. There's no point in denying it. Under his hands, she shrugs her slim shoulders. "I mean, I knew it was coming up, but…"

"And you say _I'm_ the unromantic one." The teasing is gentle, missing its usual acerbic bite.

He's laughing at her. She knows he is. Maybe not aloud, not yet, but he is very definitely laughing at her. Damn. Trying for a chilly sort of dignity, she says, "Well, I suppose I just thought… I mean, at our age..."

"You forgot," he crows, unchivalrous in his delighted triumph. "Oh, Grace… I'm disappointed in you."

Grace twists in his grip, turns to face him. Has to look up to make direct eye contact. "Forgive me for quite naturally assuming that you were the sort of man who wouldn't give a damn about such things."

"You forgot."

"So?" she demands, annoyance making her prickly. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Boyd…"

He does laugh then. Throws his head back and laughs in a way that she hasn't heard for a long, long time. It warms her, reminds her why throwing caution to the wind and stepping over the invisible line that existed for so long between them was, in the end, the best and only thing to do. Reminds her that there's so much more to him than his implacable tenacity, his unstable temper, his unswerving dedication to the job he does so very well. Reminds her, in fact, that falling slowly and inexorably in love with him wasn't at all the biggest mistake of her life.

"I was going to take you out to dinner," Boyd says, mirth subsiding. "A decent meal, an expensive bottle of good wine…"

"…an intimate night-cap?" she suggests, a stray entrancing erotic vision or two starting to form in the corners of her mind.

"That too," he agrees, a ghost of a wicked smile appearing for a brief second. Sometimes she's sure he can read her most private inner thoughts. Definitely unsettling. He sighs heavily, though. "But now it looks as if I'm going to spend half the bloody night sitting in the car with Spence waiting for confirmation that we can put Sadler's door in."

Well… damn.

"At least," she says after a moment, determinedly straight-faced, "you won't be on your own."

"Unlike you," he points out.

It's too tempting not to inquire, "How do you know that I'll be on my own?"

The dark eyes glint at her. "You'd better be, Grace. You'd bloody better be."

Her fingers seem to find his shirt buttons without conscious direction. They start to nimbly unfasten the last few. "Do I detect the tiniest hint of jealousy, Boyd?"

"What do _you_ think?"

Grace thinks he's extremely territorial. A tough, proud, strong-willed man who never thinks twice about protecting and defending the things that matter to him. She thinks he's just as fierce and as stubborn in love as he is in everything else. She thinks she wouldn't want him any other way.

On a whim she stretches up on her tip-toes to kiss him gently. A light, tempting brush of lips that makes secret promises to be kept at a much more opportune time. Caressing his cheek, she lets her fingertips trace the distinct line between rough stubble and the much softer bristle of his goatee beard. She says, "You might want to have a quick shave for the cameras, too. Think of all those bored housewives of a certain age watching the early evening news while they wait for their dreary husbands to get home from work…"

His reply is a solemn, "I'm strictly a one-woman man, Grace."

And for all his faults, she knows he is. Stepping back, she pats him lightly on the chest. "I think I'd better get back to work, don't you? Before the sight of you without a shirt on leads me even further astray."

"The timing's a bitch, isn't it?" Boyd says, making no move to stop her. Finally stripping the shirt in question, he adds, "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Hold that thought," Grace instructs, "the weekend's not too far away."

"Promises, promises."

"Yes," she says, with a final meaningful smirk. Slipping from his office, she closes the door quietly behind her. Nothing's really changed, but somehow… somehow for her the long, difficult week has improved immeasurably.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
